A Choice of Enemies

by Mordecai Richler

  Max Price, the surgeon who had given up a spectacularly lucrative practice in Montreal to go to Spain, had been killed during the defence of Madrid.

  Great he was, Norman reflected, and quick to act. Not a hesitant, self-indulgent oaf, like me.

  But in those days, Norman remembered fondly, the choice of enemies had been clear. Today you were no longer altogether sure. You signed the petitions, you defended Soviet art to liberals, and you didn’t name old comrades. But your loyalties, like those of a shared childhood, were sentimental; they lacked true conviction.

  From Madrid Norman fled to Mallorca.

  A sum of lazy, sunny days on the beach helped to seal, if not exactly heal, the wound caused by Nicky’s death. Norman wrote a long letter to his Aunt Dorothy thanking the Singletons for all they had done to educate Nicky. During his stay on Mallorca he also wrote three voluminous letters to Sally and then tore them up and sent her a postcard instead. But he bought her a mantilla and an album of flamenco records and a suede jacket, which he hoped was the right size. And then, even though his money was running out, he was still not ready to return to London. He took the boat to Ibiza instead.

  The cracked brown island of Ibiza rises out of the calm blue sea like a blister evoked by the sun. Norman arrived early one morning when the port town itself, a hill bandaged round and round with bony white houses, was held in a haze of orange heat. For one delightful week he swam every morning in the bay and explored the Phoenician ruins. Then he began to drink a lot and had an affair with an American girl who wrote pornographic novels under the pseudonym of Baron von Kleeg.

  Nina was a delightful girl, really, and she had hit on a wonderfully original idea. The hero of her novel was a teacher in a school for nubile blind girls. The teacher came to school nude every morning for he was, after all, invisible in his particular world. Nina was also compiling a definitive anthology of filthy limericks.

  After Nina left his room around five a.m. one morning Norman stepped out on his balcony and there, suddenly, was the sea and the gift of the morning. The sun rose whitely from behind a clump of parched brown hills. A boat with sails whacked full of wind charged into the harbour, as below, on the quay, two peasants led a troop of eight donkeys laden with sacks of olives towards the warehouse scales and wizened men with parched trousers spread their nets wide. There was the chug-chug-chug of the fishing fleet just slipping into the bay, gulls thickening like a halo around them, and the one-eyed gaseosa vendor setting up his cart hopefully, unfolding his little deck chair, and then promptly falling asleep.

  Norman’s despair lifted mysteriously. He was suddenly so glad to be apart of it, so grateful for the flames that had scarred but saved him, that he wanted to carve this chunk of morning out of time for special remembrance.

  He decided to hurry back to Sally.

  Sally.

  Sally was the answer. Sally was his hope. With Sally he could make it.

  “Have you been seeing Charlie and Joey?” Norman asked.

  “As little as possible. Your friend has no money. He bores me.”

  “Yeah, I knew Charlie was broke. He owes me rent money.”

  Norman told Karp about the deal with Winkleman. Now that he was back, he said, Charlie would be getting more money. He had spoken to Winkleman that very morning. Everything was O.K.

  “Will you have dinner with me?” Karp asked.

  “I’d be delighted,” he said unenthusiastically. “But look here, I haven’t told you my news yet. I’m going to ask Sally to marry me.”

  Karp averted his eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Karp? Don’t you think she’s good enough for me?”

  Karp shrugged his shoulders; his cane swung from side to side.

  “We have a new tenant here. He’s a German. Ernst, so to speak, rents the room next to Sally.”

  “So what,” Norman said. “Why shouldn’t he?”

  Karp’s face wrinkled, his eyes squeezed shut. They opened again as his smile faded. “When you are angry,” Karp said, “you remind me of Anna Pauker as a young man.” Karp poked an open suitcase with his cane. Pushing aside the mantilla he revealed an album of flamenco records. “Gifts?”

  “I’ll see you later,” Norman said sharply.

  Karp hesitated at the door. “One shouldn’t insult one’s landlord,” he said, and he was gone.

  II

  Norman threw a shirt over Sally’s gifts, planning to uncover them as a surprise when she came. If only the jacket fits her, he thought. He prepared tea, lit a cigarette, and began to wait impatiently. An hour passed. Then, just as he was about to pour himself a drink, there was a knock at the door.

  “Come on in.”

  Her hair, bleached by the sun, was blonder than he had remembered it.

  “Sally,” Norman said. “Sally.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, but when he tried to make the embrace more intimate he felt her stiffen.

  “Take it easy,” Sally said.

  Norman saw Ernst for the first time and he understood why she had stiffened. Sally was shy because of the stranger.

  Sally, as though to warn Norman, took Ernst by the hand and introduced him. “Ernst lives in the house,” she said. “He’s a refugee from East Berlin.”

  Ignoring Ernst, Norman fumbled through a suitcase. “Here, Sally, this is for you.”

  “How perfectly lovely!” Sally draped the mantilla over her shoulder and, as Norman bent to reach for the suede jacket, she swung around and around before Ernst. “Like it, darling?”

  “Yes,” Ernst said. “Of course.”

  Norman dropped the jacket. He stared.

  “Am I expected to say you shouldn’t have done it?” Sally asked.

  “No, certainly not.”

  “Is there anything wrong?” she asked.

  “Of course not. Why should there be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you don’t know, then neither do I.” Norman cleared his throat. He recovered sufficiently to smile. “When do you start work?” he asked.

  Sally noticed that Norman was greyer. The circles under his eyes were darker. He was tanned, he looked extremely healthy, but he appeared to have aged considerably in a month.

  “Next week,” Sally said. “I’m so excited. The school’s not far from here. The Northern Line takes me directly there.”

  Norman dared not look too closely at Ernst yet, but his expression, when he turned to Sally, was rich in accusations.

  “Just in case you haven’t been told,” she said, “Ernst and I are living together.”

  Norman wiped his greying curly hair with a clammy hand. He lit a cigarette. Looking at Sally again he saw her briefly as a shallow young girl intent on thrills; no more. But the impression didn’t last long enough to help him. Suppressing an urge to toss them both out of the room, Norman poured tea. “Why don’t you both sit down,” he said, not looking at either of them.

  “Oh, Norman, I knew we could count on you. I knew you’d help us.” He shrunk from her hopeful smile. “Why didn’t you write to me more than that miserly little postcard?”

  “I was very busy.”

  When they sat down together on the bed Norman looked away from their clasped hands.

  “I was so sorry to hear about your brother,” Sally said. “What a shame!”

  “Yes,” Norman said emptily, indicating that the subject was closed. “It was too bad about Nicky.” He noticed that Ernst was not drinking his tea. “Would you prefer a glass of cognac?” he asked.

  “No,” Ernst said. “Thank you.”

  “What do you plan on doing in London, Ernst?”

  “I –”

  “We can be honest with Norman. He hasn’t got any papers. He’s here illegally. But Ernst can speak five languages, Norman. He’s awfully intelligent.”

  “I would like to be able to support myself. I don’t like taking Sally’s money.”

  Sure, Norman thought, sure. “I think I’ll have a drink myself.” Norman poure
d himself a glass of cognac. “Well,” he said coldly, “I hope you’ll like it in London.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Sally said, the quiver in her voice belying her frivolous manner. “One day Ernst is going to marry a big fat lady who’ll take him to America. He’s going to be rich.”

  Norman ignored her. “You describe yourself as a refugee,” he said. “Do you mind telling me why, exactly, did you leave East Germany?”

  “I’m not a bikini-ist,” Ernst said, “or a thief or a sexual pervert. The police aren’t after me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You chose freedom, so to speak.”

  “So to speak.”

  “Let’s not talk politics,” Sally said. “I hate politics. Karp picks on him, Norman, he –”

  “What do you expect? Karp spent years in their concentration camps. He has his little memories.”

  “My father,” Ernst began, “also …” But he stopped. Norman, like all the others before him, looked quite prepared to disbelieve him.

  “No,” Sally said. “Tell him.”

  “My father,” Ernst began, “also …”

  But he couldn’t tell Norman about his father. The anguish was too deeply felt to be cheapened by argument once more.

  Looking at Norman, Ernst thought, you come from a community of friends, you have shelter, office, enemies, family, and the memories of other women, so please let me be. Go find yourself another girl, he thought. Let me stop running for a month.

  “You don’t know what the Russians did in Germany,” he said.

  “The communist regime in Germany,” Norman began faintheartedly, “is probably the most imperfect –”

  “Please,” Sally said, “let’s talk about something else.”

  “What would you expect,” Norman asked, “after the camps?”

  “I have done you no harm,” Ernst said.

  Norman did not reply immediately. He was afraid for Sally. She was so innocent, so trusting, and Ernst was so obviously worthless. “How old are you?” Norman asked.

  “Twenty-two.”

  Sally bit her lip. “Norman,” she asked, “will you help Ernst find work?”

  Twenty-two, Norman thought, and Nicky was only twenty-one.

  “Will you help us?”

  Norman poured himself another drink. “Did she ever tell you why I left the United States?” he asked Ernst.

  “No. She didn’t.”

  “I was an assistant professor at a university. They wanted to know if I had ever been a member of the communist party. I refused to tell them.”

  “What’s that got to do with Ernst?” Sally asked.

  “I won’t help him, Sally. And I prefer that you didn’t bring him to my room again.”

  Sally flushed. “I certainly never expected you to –”

  “Please go,” Norman said. “Both of you.”

  As soon as they left Norman drained his glass.

  It would not have worked out anyway, he thought. Probably she would have wanted a Swedish Modern double bed, impressionist prints, and no love making in the mornings. Children would have been horrible. Diapers; sitters; measles; and growing up Rotarians, or worse. Better this. Better your own private place to come home to. All marriages ended the same. After five years – bickering, little affairs on the side, a resentful tolerance, no more desire.

  Norman poured himself another drink.

  A complaint – something terrible, something that could not be isolated – filled his body acidly. The palms of his hands sweated. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. Or he would sleep and wake at five in that familiar sweat of fear. Norman rubbed his jaw, loosened his tie, and cursed softly. All his nerves tingled.

  “Yes,” he had said. “It was too bad for Nicky.”

  Nicky had been so tall and splendid, a beautiful boy, and now he was gone.

  Jesus, Norman thought.

  There was the weight, the crippling weight, of all the things he had omitted to do. Like being too tight to befriend Hornstein, then watching him die. Like not telling Charlie he was a sensational writer, when such a small lie would make him so happy. Like avoiding Karp. Oh, so many little kindnesses withheld. So much bastardy.

  If only, he thought, I could be a better, warmer man.

  “You’re like the sober one at an orgy,” Zelda Landis had once said. “The one who is too decent to remind you the next morning what a fool you made of yourself the night before.”

  Why couldn’t he fling himself at life like Charlie? Why couldn’t he make a fool of himself more often? Why had he fled Sally?

  Norman felt old. Very old.

  His gaze fell on the suede jacket. Maybe it will fit Joey, he thought.

  III

  Karp sighed; he sucked his tooth.

  He didn’t bring me a gift, he thought. After all I did for him, after I bathed and washed him in the hospital, he was gone all this time and he didn’t bring me a gift.

  Karp’s apartment consisted of three rooms, and a kitchen, bathroom, and toilet. All the rooms but one, the bedroom, were on the same floor. To get to the bedroom you had to climb another, inner flight of stairs. The kitchen gleamed with every modern convenience. Karp studied himself in the bathroom mirror for a while. His colour was bad. There were little circles under his eyes. Karp rubbed his face with cold cream and then dabbed his cheeks with tissue paper. He applied another lotion to his hands, made a note of the fact that he needed a manicure, and then returned to his easy chair in the living room, where he resumed his watch.

  The table was lavishly set for two. It was 10.30. But Norman had yet to come for dinner.

  A half hour later Karp looked at his watch again, he sighed, and went into the kitchen. Karp prepared himself an hors d’oeuvre of Portuguese sardines, tomato and carrot slices, beetroot, devilled egg, shrimp, a spoonful of potato salad, and mixed a splendid salad dressing to go with it. In the living room again he sat down with the plate of food, a glass of beaujolais, and a book of Redouté’s Roses to study while he ate.

  Karp owned a large library of books on plants, flowers, trees, and animals. He was aware that people like Winkleman, Landis, and Graves said that a flower was “pretty” or a tree was “nice.” They never knew the proper names. This was one reason why Karp was so fond of Norman. Walking with him a comment on a tree, the breed of a dog, or the especial charm of a certain hybrid of rose was not lost.

  Most Jews are remarkably deficient in a knowledge of nature. Karp was determined to remedy this and any other traits, like an emotional distaste for sea food and a tendency to tell self-deprecating jokes, that might brand him. This was neither self-hatred nor the idle fancy of a social climber. Karp had already paid an exorbitant price for being a Jew. The next time they were rounded up he wanted to get off free. He already knew a lot about Catholicism and when the going got tough again he planned to convert. This was not a repudiation of his people. It was part of his plan for survival.

  Norman came at last. He stumbled into the living room, his eyes red and glassy.

  “Norman,” Karp said gleefully. “Why, Norman, you’ve been drinking.”

  Norman slumped back on the sofa and removed his glasses.

  “I read a few pages of your book earlier this evening,” Karp said, “and I must say that I found a lot to criticize.”

  “I’ll thank you not to go through my papers.”

  “You were late for dinner. I went up to your room to see if you were sleeping and –”

  “And there was my manuscript,” Norman said. “At the bottom of a locked suitcase.”

  “The key was on the bureau.”

  For ten years Norman had been working on his book. A History of John Dryden and His Times. The book was a secret and a work of love. If it was ever published, which was doubtful, he would dedicate it to his father, but meanwhile, like Sunday painting for others, it was something he could return to with hope again and again. Polishing, rewriting, and, most of all, enjoying himself. Norman meant to present Dryden and his pe
riod in the round. Finishing the book was of some consequence to him – more than he chose to admit – for this, however humble, or academic, was to be his special contribution to scholarship. Meanwhile, the book was fun. A private world. A little source of sanity for Norman Price.

  “Would you care for a drink?” Karp asked.

  “I love her, Karp. I love Sally.”

  Karp patted Norman’s back. “There,” he said. “There, there.”

  “How could she prefer that Aryan bastard to me?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No. I’m not hungry.”

  Karp poured Norman a scotch and soda. “You look older,” he said. “Your brother’s death has affected you.”

  “Affected me?” Norman said. “Nothing affects me. Didn’t you know?”

  “There,” Karp said. “There, there.”

  “Why didn’t I have the courage to tell Sally how much I loved her when I had the chance?”

  “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead with my dinner.”

  “I’m going away. As soon as I can scrape enough money together I’m going to go to the Continent. I must keep my life free of disturbances. I’m afraid, Karp.”

  IV

  Norman woke late the next morning. He woke with a hangover. But once he had read his mail his head cleared and he was jubilant. His agent in New York had written to say that Star Books had accepted revisions on his thriller and that a cheque for two thousand dollars was forthcoming. Norman phoned Winkleman right away.

  “I’ve got bad news for you, Sonny. I want to back out of that script deal.”

  “The hell you do. I paid Charlie another two-fifty yesterday just because you promised to get right down to work. What happened?”

  Jesus, Norman thought. He couldn’t write Charlie’s scripts for him. He would explain everything and lend him some money. That was the most he could do. “I’ll get you the money back,” Norman said.

  “We must have a bad connection. My name is Winkleman. Is that Norman Price speaking?”